


han jisung vs the world (박쥐)

by jesuisjisung



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, Gang Violence, M/M, Slow Burn, Violence, lapslock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisjisung/pseuds/jesuisjisung
Summary: "chan, are you... with jisung, somehow? i haven't heard from him for months now," jisung's mother uttered worriedly on the other side of the line, increasing the furrow of chan's brows.exes chan, an ambitious gangster on the rise, and minho, an ex convict, must reunite when the ex of their failed polyamorous relationship, han jisung, went missing.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han, Bang Chan/Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 5
Kudos: 66





	han jisung vs the world (박쥐)

**Author's Note:**

> warning: not proofread.

there’s a pounding thump starting at one specific point of chan’s eyes, the one where it morphs into a small dot of light as soon as he closes them. the pounding is slow at first, barely there. it’s just the usual pounding of someone who’s probably had too much time to sleep—or less time to sleep, in chan’s case, especially after a night of four soju bottles. but now, as the sun rises a little brighter, and chan’s business gets a little trickier than just to get his hung over ass up from his messy bed, the pounding has grown incredibly insistent as a harsh reminder that a normal human being must never consume coffee on an empty stomach after being choked down by alcohol not eight hours before.

thanking his impulsive decision to put on his sunglasses at the last minute, chan strides down the bustling morning streets of Hongdae carrying a cup of the overpriced plain espresso he got from starbucks. it’s probably a high time for him to fix his ratty coffee machine, but considering how it feels like every ticking moment chan spends in his own flat is timed and rushed, it would only be a waste of money.

_fuck capitalism_ , he grumbles silently as he glares his cup of coffee while waiting for the traffic light to turn red for him to cross the road, before he wordlessly chugs down the black water considering he _fucking needs it_.

this isn’t how his sunday is supposed to go, honestly. this is supposed to be his fucking day-off, for heaven’s sake, minguk had told him so.

_go home, chan_ , that sleazy bastard had said last night. _buy some alcohol, or call some chick to fuck. our job’s done for day. tomorrow you can sleep like a baby_.

and chan had foolishly believed that ugly-faced junkie so he had bought a whole carton of soju to relax his muscles away back in his flat—up until he was _rudely_ awaken by an insistent ringing of his phone at _six thirty in the goddamn morning_.

he was planning to ignore it, he really did. but upon hearing the damn phone screamed consistently for eight times straight, chan had groaned as if he was receiving the best blowjob of his life before he had snatched the phone from the nightstand and read the caller id with squinted eyes.

_minguk_ , it had said. fucker.

“there better be a whole shooting at the fucking barbershop for you to fuck up my phone like this,” chan had said, icy and straight to the point as he glued the phone to his ear.

minguk had only chuckled guiltlessly. as light as someone who hadn’t just triggered a day-long hangover to take effect into chan’s head.

“sorry, _channie_ ,” he had whined, and chan had known that it’s bullshit, motherfucker ain’t sorry. “but we got a situation. not a shooting, though.”

“just get straight to the point, please. i’m starting to feel nauseous,” chan had groaned, again.

“ouch. i know my vocal abilities aren’t the best but no need to be so mean, channie.”

“i meant from the hangover, dumbass,” chan had interjected as he plopped himself back down on his pillow, massaging his greasy nose bridge— _i fucking forgot to wash my face before sleep, ugh_. “i’m wasted up until like four hours ago and i honestly need sleep so can you just say what _you gotta say_.”

“fine, fine, jesus,” minguk had giggled, and chan _swore_ he could imagine his signature disgusting smirk morphing into his face. “dojoon called us. _specifically us_. got a job to do.”

at this, chan hadn’t had enough self control to not curse blasphemies in the holy name of jesus christ for five continuous seconds before he calmed himself down.

“...okay, now?” minguk had said again casually on the other side of the line, like an older brother waiting for his brother’s tantrum to pass on.

“fuck you,” chan had spit before he went to sit himself on the bed, at least giving his heart an opportunity to calmly distribute the blood flow back to his brain instead of standing up suddenly. “when and where?”

and that’s the beautiful story of how chan, looking as handsome as a hugo boss model (as he had confidently said to himself with a wink in this morning after a rushed session of scrubbing his face red with water and cheap facial wash and teeth brushing) with messy, most likely greasy, black hair, dark green short-sleeved button up that hopefully looks as _not that crumpled_ as chan had initially perceived when he took it out from his wardrobe, black slacks, and a pair of fake black dr. martens he bought at Hongdae last year.

it’s only seven thirty now, but people have gotten busy, which is pretty understandable. a sunday morning in the middle of july screams ideal day for a picnic under the sun. the sun would get way too unbearable if families wait even as far as ten o’clock. and to be fair, chan’s house is located in the forever populated Hongdae, which means the juxtaposition of him being all murky in the midst of giggling, glowing happy families buying shit from newly open snack stalls can’t exactly be avoided one way or another.

it’s only seven thirty now, as chan glances at his fake rolex, which means thirty minutes left to spare before he’s defined punctual by his peers, which means there’s still time to grab a cup of mini bungeoppang from the lady with the weird pink hairnet at the corner of the street.

minguk may talk big and act cool, but he’s actually a wuss puss when it comes to the dirty work of the field. no matter how late chan is, he’d definitely wait for the older. with this convinced principle in mind, chan decides he’ll leave minguk to his own devices of torture where his no good brain supplies him with scenarios as in chan bailing at the last minute or getting gunned down in the street by any of their gang’s many enemies, to walk down to the bungeoppang stall with no burden in mind.

///

“asshole! fifty minutes! fifty minutes late! have you lost your fucking mind?!”

minguk’s shrill shouts resonate in the entirety of the backroom as soon as chan shows himself, making the green shirted man sneers in annoyance.

“keep it down, dumbass.”

“you _keep it down_ ,” minguk stands as he takes out his finger to point at chan’s face. “i’ve been—“

“gambling the entire paycheck you just received yesterday? yeah, _sorry about that_ , mate,” chan interrupts, gesturing his hand gracefully to the round, green table in front of him.

they’re currently in the back room of a run-down barbershop called “Butterfly Dimes”, located in the edge of the russian community area of Itaewon. in all honesty, every time chan has to bring himself to this barbershop, he can’t help but to look at the fading name board nailed shut on top of the entrance of the barbershop, finding himself chuckling silently from the sheer comedic irony of the name.

the barbershop is anything but a dime. it’s dingy, sketchy, and smells damp. it’s literally the last shop alive of that particular corner, where eight other shops have perished due to fire, leaving Butterfly Dimes to be the only shop standing since eight months ago. the russians who live in this particular area are poor, superstitious people, and they all have contributed to the rumors milling regarding the satanic worships the owner of the place have done for all these years.

which chan believed at some point within his subconscious because honestly? one look at the guy owning the shop you would think he’s that legendary immortal character nicholas flamel.

still alive after 98 years in this country.

and still no fluency whatsoever in korean.

all chan knows about the blind and deaf old man is that everyone calls him uncle cheng, he’s never married once in his life, and can’t cut hair for shit even since he built Butterfly Dimes for the first time.

the only reason why his shop was established in the first place was probably because cheng was the only chinese immigrant gutsy enough to bootleg chinese liquors for everyone who visits the shop. no matter the nationality, if you came in wearing military uniforms, cheng would most likely serve you the drinks at various back rooms located in the shop. when the seventies began, when poker and blackjack was brought in by american soldiers from the base thirty minutes walk away from Butterfly Dimes, cheng expanded his moonshine business to illegal gambling areas.

at least that was what minguk had told chan when chan was first invited to hang around the gambling room of The Dime, as they like to call cheng’s shop, after climbing enough ranks to permanently ditch his street runner status.

“don’t worry about him, chan,” a tall, african-american soldier named alex who chan knows very well got a pair of unbelievably amazing hands in poker, said in english. “he’s losing, anyway.”

“ugh, come on! it’s just one loss. literally, _one loss_. y’all acting like i got a permanent reputation of being a poker loser,” minguk rolls his eyes.

“son,” a buff, middle-aged american called steven says as he moves to stand up after chan watching him putting every piece of his earned money in an ugly brown fanny pack. “none of us in this room have slept since we started nine hours ago and guess what? _you still lose_. five hundred thousand won, no less.”

chan whistles as he moves to grab a plastic cup from the corner of the room to refill it with the free water from a gallon cheng’s assistant, a highly incompetent young boy called jeongin, provided.

“you weren’t kidding when you said you’ve saved enough money that yesterday’s paycheck doesn’t mean anything to you, eh, _mingukkie_?”

chan only laughs to his cup when minguk flips him the middle finger.

they stay quiet after then, not exchanging any more conversations until alex, steven, and another old russian named alec filtered out of the room, bidding half-hearted, languid goodbyes to both chan and minguk. despite how everyone who visits The Dime’s back room confirms how no matter who they are, they dropped all the identities the moment they entered the room, both chan and minguk had agreed that their businesses with the gang must be steered clear from any outsiders’ knowledge.

The Dime isn’t that discreet anymore. it’s been standing long enough, filled by shady-looking people long enough, for police to put it on one of the red-light places in seoul to conduct stakeouts. it’s been quite a while since the police suspect some shady big deals are going on behind The Dime’s closed doors and closed lips, but even eight hour long stakeouts never bring anything to fruition.

when the gambling customers are out of luck, they would usually play on the days the more emotionally unstable officers staked out the place. not wanting to face shame of bringing forth yet another vain investigations, they would go “fuck it” and just thrash The Dime for illegal gambling.

and the only reason why the “bigger” deals have never been caught in a place as _conspicuous_ as The Dime is, because there literally is _no gangs_ who operate anything in The Dime.

gangs never operate their bases in a place as “popular” as The Dime, at least not for the new gangs. the old gangs, who had gone through their time fighting for their gigantic clan names in hurly-burly chaos of the nineties, may no longer have to care much about careful formalities because most of them have at least two reliable people seated comfortably in politics, ensuring the gang’s—or _organized business_ , as those old snobs prefer to call themselves—security and immunity, at least for the middle to high tier members.

street guys still get the worst of it, though. but again, what does big gang have to worry about in tens of high school dropouts who switched careers to be thugs and drug runners getting imprisoned? none. those poor kids haven’t even gotten their gang tattoos yet.

and if the police insists The Dime is a red-light area where “big, shady, gang deals” are happening, they will mostly only find these kids, who have no contribution whatsoever in their captures.

compared to the old gangs, the new gangs are still very careful. building _not-so-obvious_ fortresses for their bases which means: no big things are going to happen in a place as hot as The Dime.

except maybe chan and minguk. then again, chan and minguk aren’t even mid-tier yet. yes, they’re no longer street runners. yes, now they’re allowed access by their “mentor”, jiwook, to hang out with him in The Dime—which usually means getting a job then bump out after only ten minutes tops. but no, they’re not that relevant yet.

minguk has told chan that he has no vision whatsoever to climb any higher than where he is now. _the higher you get, the higher the risks are_.

well, he’s _not wrong_. just _cowardice_. because chan isn’t going to spend the remainder of his youth to wait for jiwook’s call, getting details of the dirty lowly work they have to do, return back to jiwook for the money and assessment, then go home to go to sleep.

no, chan isn’t like that. chan wants it _big_. chan wants to be where jiwook is now, sitting on the furthest back room of The Dime, lounging in his sofa with an overpriced cigar sitting in between his lips, an unflattering contrast to his shirtless state where one can sees his toned, skinny, littered-with-tattoos figured completed with black ripped jeans that can put 2005s rock bands to shame.

but chan also wants to be the man behind jiwook’s turqoise samsung nori phone where internet access is unavailable, but phonecalls and text messages from the area bosses are.

chan wants to be like those men who dresses in a suit as formal as a funeral suit minus the tie, which means not so formal nor crisp, to be honest. but then again, that would be a betrayal to his own conscience, as chan knows those men are only little diddies playing gangsta in their closet that’s situated somewhere in the back of a downtown club, just a little upgrade from jiwook’s cigarette smelling playground behind uncle cheng’s.

chan wants to climb higher, higher, and higher.

but now, as he sits himself down on one of the couch across from jiwook’s own recliner, joined by minguk who moves to the mini bar in the corner to pour himself a bit of tonic, he takes a deep breath instead to calm his post-drinking-followed-with-just-a-short-nap headache and retract himself from the daydreams.

first thing first.

“you guys,” jiwook pauses by inhaling his cigar. “are as late as a pregnant woman’s period.”

chan sighs.

“sorry, hyung,” he opts out. he may consider making minguk anxiously wait for his arrival as fun, but he’s not that much of a prick to make his partner takes the fall for his sense of humor. “it’s my bad. i had a shit ton amount of drink last night.”

jiwook only hums noncommittally before he exhales the billowing smoke of the cigar.

jang jiwook is a man in his mid thirties who has a face as beautiful as a veteran kpop idol but a voice as fried as a throat cancer survivor. chan can only imagine if he can see the older living in his youth looking exactly like he is now—long, black hair, smoother than that of a female, completed with tattoos without the usual corny gigantic tits patters, and toned abs despite his skinny figure—jiwook must’ve been the prettiest man the younger ever laid eyes on.

chan will honestly volunteer to sleep with the guy. even now, too, despite the yellowing teeth from excessive smoking and the visible scars marring his body from countless fights he had gotten on his way of climbing the ladder with a thug as the starting point.

after inhaling the cigar one more time, then exhaling again, jiwook sits up straight and shrugs.

“a man’s booze preference isn’t for anyone to bother, eh, channie?” he says to chan with that... _manic_ grin of his. it used to unsettle the living shit out of the younger, but now chan simply regards it with a shrug.

“sorry, hyung. i was _misinformed_ ,” chan glares subtly at minguk, who’s smiling unapologetically in the corner of the room.

jiwook hums.

“pity.”

the older then stands up.

“pity for you both, i mean,” he continues as he puts his cigar down on a glass ashtray situated on top of a wooden end table before he rummages through the small box where at least four car keys are stored. “because now that the sun has risen up a bit higher, and more people are awake, your job will get a _little_ harder.”

“what? like disposing a dead body?” minguk jokes as he sips his tonic which earns a disgusted frown from the hungover chan. jiwook hums again.

“ _exactly_ like disposing a dead body.”

the headache returns in full force.

“you’re joking, hyung!” minguk exclaims, scoffing as he throws his arms on and about.

“you would wish, but i’m not,” jiwook lightly replies before he throws a car key away to minguk’s flailing hand that almost fails to catch it. chan takes a glimpse of the key—one of the fat, black ssangyong. _fuck_. that car is specifically designed to board more than a couple of people, dead _or_ alive. “one of the boss’ son fucked up in a brothel down at Daerim. he forced his chick to snort too much coke for her to handle and... _voila_. you both got a job.”

chan groans exasperatedly.

“hyung. you _can’t_ just ask us to dispose a body from a brothel in a _crowded area_ in broad fucking daylight!”

“i can and i _did_ ,” jiwook replies, this time with a side glare and a perfectly _audible_ exasperation. “and you better get on moving. the body is almost four hours old now. you and i don’t have to be a crime genius to see that’s been way too long for an _expendable_ dead body to stay in a business area, don’t you think?

chan scoffs.

“are you telling me... that the brothel still operates despite the fact a damn whore just _died not six hours ago_?”

jiwook shrugs as he returns to the recliner, taking his cigar back.

“it’s our most profitable one. the high-rollers’ scene. it may not be as active as when the sun goes down, but even three customers are worth more of your accumulative paychecks after a couple of jobs. ”

chan sighs loudly the same time minguk downs his entire drink to approach jiwook, trying desperately to be relocated for another job which chan has already predicted won’t be heard. he focuses to massage his temple, trying to cut down on cheap aspirins he’s used in an unhealthy amount for this past week alone, thanks to sleep deprivation and too much alcohol.

_this is definitely not how his Sunday is supposed to fucking go_.

///

the annoying, green neon sign of “Heaven’s Night” has been turned off, according to jiwook, accommodating quite a decent background for the mundane barefoot children running around in way too loud squeals to be heard this early in a _fucking Sunday morning_. the one story minimalistic house blends in easily with the surrounding building of west Daerim—not too shabby to be obviously shady in a low-class way, but not too high-end like the penthouse brothels their gang owns in Itaewon or even gangnam.

their gang is called smoked lotus—horrible, chan knows, it sounds like a fucking chinese family restaurant. but the gang is pretty solid, and chan has had a lovely sentimental childhood memory with the gang. they were small when chan first encountered them at the age of thirteen. now, eight years later, they’ve grown into one of the biggest seoul locals, with a little branch up somewhere in gangwon-do, secretly conducting a purge to get rid all the competing bad blood from the already there rival gangs.

smoked lotus’ headquarter, as chan has heard and _many else_ has heard which probably means it’s untrue, is located in the deeper areas of Daerim, where people will think twice to even pass their car by and where it will appear as the number one area to be warned against the foreigners not to visit after dark.

the gang, as chan has heard, prevails mostly in the business of small time drugs, prostitution, and _security outsourcing_ —that’s mercenaries and hired thugs for you. chan has entered the ring from the drug circle, being recruited by jiwook three years ago as a runner. it wasn’t the most pleasant job, but anyone who starts from the bottom won’t experience any pleasantries. chan has had his fair share of sleeping the night in a cell, or even getting beaten up by rival gangs who made orders to force information from the runner (which never works, because runners are completely left in the dark), or getting beaten up _yet again_ by a junkie who had no sufficient money but wanted say, five grams of heroin.

chan had already become a runner the first time smoked lotus decides they’re strong enough to conduct a war, and it was _horrible_. chan used to live in one of the rundown flats owned by the gang, and those flats where all the runners and other low level members—not even members yet, _recruits_ —are sleeping. after experiencing a third near-death experience from unannounced raids: twice by the other two gangs, once by the police—chan decided to start sleeping in the parks of peaceful communities like seongbuk-dong or apgujeong-dong.

(not for long, obviously. chan had slept with one eye open. as soon as the familiar rustlings of the communities’ security guards, he had always run like a madman on fire.)

smoked lotus defeated the two existing local gangs of seoul in a winding three months war—in which chan had almost nothing to feed himself because the drug running had gone completely chaotic. now, runners got captured not only for information, but also to be murdered. chan wasn’t stupid, so he had taken a break, busying himself in The Dime to kiss ass.

apparently chan is a _fantastic_ cook. and there’s nothing more enjoyable than a tasty, warm, kimchi stew to enjoy by the exhausted gang members in the middle of a winter gang war.

the amazing thing was, chan had been undoubtedly safe from any threats—unless any rivaling gang suddenly grew out balls to strike a barbershop where even american soldiers came to gamble. the not so amazing thing was, chan barely had any money to live, because he wasn’t given any money.

he had managed back then. but that was a story for another time.

now, though.

_now_ , chan has to brainstorm with minguk how to dispose a dead body in broad daylight, pronto.

“the acid barrel is still in the harbor, no?” minguk asks as he keeps his eyes on the street and his hand on the wheel.

“they won’t operate before midnight.”

“fuck. what about the one owned by the chinese?”

“they _also_ won’t operate before midnight. plus, they’re within black crane territory.”

“jesus.”

chan’s headache has gone down considerably now, thanks to his weak will to resist against cheap aspirins. he supposes one of these days he’s going to be an aspirin junkie and honestly, that sounds too _uncool_ to exist in the vocabulary of someone who went through three years of his life running high-end drugs like cocaine and heroin.

“what if we burn it? to the buddhist temple?”

chan frowns as he faces the window to his side of the car before the turns to minguk incredulously.

“right, stupid idea. sorry,” minguk briskly corrects himself before sighing another exasperated complain. “fucking bosses’ sons, yo. they think they got daddy’s protection deep enough for them to start fucking up and others will be on their beck and call to clean up.”

“well, if they think that way, they’re not wrong.”

minguk grumbles incredulously at that before the car goes silent again.

as the first obvious chinatown sign of Daerim-dong comes to view, chan grows anxious. they _need_ to figure this out fast.

“what about _The Freezer_?”

minguk pauses whatever thoughts were running in his mind before he looks at chan, surprised.

“you kidding?”

“no, i’m not.”

when talked about like this, people would probably assume that _The Freezer_ is an asset owned by the gang, but it can’t get any more wrong than that. the freezer is an ice box that belongs in the shabby hotel near The Dime, where guests are incredibly scarce that many homeless people has converted the building into their flats instead. however, as much as every floor has their own ice box, the one in the abandoned twelfth floor is the one chan and minguk _discovered_.

the floors higher than the tenth floor are abandoned and only used by passing by homeless, who don’t mean to settle. meaning, it’s usually littered with used needles of drugs, and it reeks of sexual transmitted diseases. it smells awful for the sane, but when you mind is clouded by shrooms or any type of drugs, it’s the perfect place to go.

that was when high-as-fuck chan and minguk discovered the existence of a big-ass, abandoned ice box in the twelfth floor, where chan had kicked out an out of it street prostitute whose needle still stuck out from her wrist. the twelfth floor was also where chan saw a piece of _motherfucking human arm_ in the ice box for the first time and when the door right next to the box opened—shocking chan beyond his wits, as it revealed an old woman with a set of fake teeth and fried voice, he can say he was shocked beyond belief to hear what the woman had to say.

“one hundred thousand won a night. no one says a thing.”

and there chan had finally discovered _The Freezer_ , where you make an early book in the day to the woman, whose name was kisum, and ice would be refilled for your needs. storing soda, meat to cook later, body parts? kisum got it.

it’s a secret he keeps from jiwook because god knows how much that greedy bastard will exploit the freezer before deeming to unavailable to be accessed by chan and minguk anymore.

“it’s too fucking small, chan.”

chan rolls his eyes as if minguk is as idiotic as a shrimp.

“we cut it, _obviously_.”

minguk hits the brake so suddenly that chan lurches forward. thankfully, his hands are ready to prevent his head from hitting the dashboard of the old ssangyong.

“what the fuck?!” chan yells the same time minguk rolls down the window to his side.

“watch it kids! next time, i ain’t going to be this generous!”

chan looks ahead and he sees a couple of kids, aged probably between 8 to 12, are standing shell-shocked in front of their car hood, one of them carrying a bright pink ball. they freezes, eyes wide as they look at the shouting minguk.

probably from shock of almost getting slammed in the face by a car.

but chan doesn’t care, and neither does minguk as the latter presses the honk loud enough to make those kids jump back before they run, crying.

“stupid fucking kids,” minguk grumbles under his breath as he rolls up his window, driving again. which is a smart decision because people are starting to look. it will be fine if the people looking are, say, merchant ladies or some disturbed parents hearing harsh tone from a guy that looks like he murders rabbit in his free time. the people staring at them are anything but.

clipped, clean cut haircut decorates their frowning, hard faces. skin tanned, but not necessarily taken care of. ratty white button up with popped collars and equally ratty slacks.

chinatown gangs.

bad news.

smoked lotus may have paid hefty amounts of taxes to keep their businesses in tact in this part of the town, but that doesn’t mean the neighborhood gang will condone all kinds of disrespect.

“anyway,” chan interrupts himself from looking any longer at the watching hurdles of men. if things come down to it, chan’s got a backup plan. “the freezer. we’re storing the body there to be disposed at the acid barrel tonight. we cut it into half, at least, just so we can fit her into the box.”

“fuck. i can’t believe i’m spending a weekend bathing in blood and intestines,” minguk groans as the car pulls over to the alley besides Heaven’s Night, providing a discreet entrance from the back for the parties who don’t want to be seen too much.

“ _neither can i_ ,” chan grits through his teeth, eyes glaring to an apologetically grinning minguk as both exit the car. “call jeongin. ask him to bring rubber gloves, bleach, a shitload amount of cheap towels and maybe paper towels, and a dozen of big plastic bags. oh, and don’t forget the machete.”

“will do.”

as minguk steps away from the car to make the call, chan excuses himself to enter the brothel first. the sooner he gets to see the condition of the corpse, the better.

he walks through the back door after being let in to a long, winding velvet red corridor. it’s smells awfully _damp_ , and he wonders how come anyone can get it on with air as suffocating as this. the pungent cheap body mists of god knows how many prostitutes contribute a lot to the unpleasant smell of the corridor, making chan outright doubts if the high rollers are as tasteful as they portray themselves to be.

chan stops on a desk at the end of the corridor to find a middle-aged man with a cream silk shirt cupping his forehead as his elbows rest on top of said desk. he would look as if he’s put up an effort to look good, if the prominent red eyes and pale face of sleep deprivation—and something else, obviously—don’t obscure his well-treated face.

“hey,” chan breaks the silence, making the man flinch a little as he looks up to chan with wide, shaky eyes. “i’m the _cleaning service_.”

at that, the man exhales loudly with so much relieve as he stands up fast, anger clouds over the previous relief.

“why are you so late?!”

chan shrugs apologetically (not really).

“got some bumps along the road.”

hearing that, the man’s eyes widen comically.

“the _cops_?” he whispers panickedly.

“no, no, jesus,” chan immediately corrects the man with an incredulous sigh. “if it were the cops, i wouldn’t be here. now, just show me where the body is.”

the man gives a long, meaningful hateful glare to chan before he starts walking, gesturing the younger to do the same. as he walks forward, chan can hear snippets of “disrespectful”, “gangster filth”, “ungrateful _cunts_ ” coming from the man’s mouth, and he has to hold himself from laughing out loud at the sudden guts this man possesses to insult someone who’s about to solve the reason why he looks like he’s aged twice his real age overnight.

the living room where the desk is located is small, not too small for at least a family of three to live in, but certainly is too small to be used as a brothel. true to his assumption, the man uses a key card onto a device attached to a wall on the other side of the room, and the door conveniently reveals a long, dark, wooden stairs underground.

what a cliche.

the stairs isn’t as deep as what chan would expect after having too much time watching movies with discreet, sketchy underground rooms where portals to the seventh dimension resides. it’s just a stairs, then a small room with a big-bodied bouncer standing in front of another wooden door, although this time it’s painted crisp with white which gives off a highly royal impression, then the bouncer opens the door—and _voila_.

it’s an entire lounge down there.

velvet covers the entire floor and the walls, although small diamonds are embedded to the walls, giving off an accent of a comfortable spring bedpost. chan can see around ten round tables in the middle of the room which levels a little lower than the place chan currently stands, and the edges of the room are covered with loveseats which _yet again_ are covered with red and gold curtains.

in all honesty, the lounge seems a lot more like a gypsy camp in a harry potter novel instead of a high-rolling brothel.

as the man leads chan deeper into the lounge, the younger can see at least two private loveseats are occupied, considering the covered curtains and some soft laughter is heard.

he wonders if the workers of this place are made aware by their superior that one of them had died.

“as you can see,” the man starts to speak while walking. “we’re not exactly vacant even during the day.”

the man goes through an archway that’s only covered by a silk gold curtain where the long and winding corridor are back at it again, still covered in velvet from top to bottom. at least, the air of this area isn’t as disgustingly damp as the one upstairs.

the man turns right.

“all of our clients are the high rollers, the _darlings_ of the business,” the man continues, pride thick in his voice. clearly, he’s someone who adores his line of work so much, and that includes _the safety_ of his employees. “so you have to understand how highly prioritized this… fickle is.”

the man walks slower as he glances back, waiting for chan’s reaction. the younger only shrugs.

“understandable,” he simply says, not intending to indulge the man any longer.

the man scoffs softly, as if considering chan isn’t worth his time to convince of anything, after all, and continues to stride on.

“i’ve moved the body, just so you know,” he says, catching chan a little off guard with the sudden change of topic, but the latter doesn’t really mind.

“that’s reckless.”

an exasperated laugh booms throughout the corridor.

“she died in the _platinum suite_ , young man. many clients after her want to make use of the room. there’s nothing more odd than a brothel rejecting a client’s request on which rooms they want to occupy.”

chan rolls his eyes.

“you misunderstand, _sir_ ,” chan emphasizes the title clearly, _obnoxiously_. “i mean it’s reckless to move a body without any proper procedure. you can accidentally leave traces in the room. who knows? maybe a nosy, undercover cop decides to have a little fun here and happens to stumble upon… let’s say a drip of blood from the victim’s nose considering she overdosed.”

the man halts suddenly, almost sending chan’s buffer build straight to his back. around one second of silence permeates the air of the corridor with dimmed music from the lounge outside before the man turns to chan, eyes glinting.

“ _we did everything according to the procedures_.”

his jaw is set tight, and chan only raises one eyebrow.

it isn’t any of his concern anyway, considering chan is more than capable in erasing his traces of involvement if the worst case scenario he just described comes to light.

“ _sure_ ,” chan replies, yet again with a shrug. “now, please, take me to the body. i’d like to execute my job as soon as possible. i have other arrangements.”

the man seems to have taken full offense as he doesn’t bother to hide any more scrutinizing look over chan.

“you mean _chores_. your kind hasn’t even received a tattoo yet and y’all already act like you have to drive the big boss straight to busan or something.”

_you can’t even function well psychologically without “my kind” being present, faggot_.

but chan swallows those words and just silently tailing the pimp further to the back, clenching his fists behind his back just in case he _accidently_ chuck the man’s pug nose in.

“this is it.”

the man stops in front of a door, uglier and rattier than the double doors chan has seen decorating the entirety of the corridor. recognizing what room it is, chan frowns exasperatedly to the man.

“a _storeroom_? really?”

the pimp only shrugs.

“it’s the only uncarpeted room in this facility. i read that carpet stains _too much_.”

the man reads _his brochure_ , chan is crazy proud.

the younger gestures the pimp to unlock the door and he does so after comically looking left and right as if the entire security personnel hadn’t helped him to move the body, chan _knows_. the door opens with a creak and a darkness of a room presents itself in front of chan’s eyes, before the man turns on the light.

it’s just a regular, 3x3 storeroom with the usual too much stuff stacking in the shelves and the uncomfortable bright light if only there isn’t a completely visible pale, dead body lying in the middle of the room.

it’s a girl, if her long, strawberry blonde hair anything to go by.

she’s small in stature as well, as chan predicts she’s probably only 1,5 meters tall. pale skin, mostly probably caused by her obvious death. skinny, but not the unflattering kind of malnourished skinny. she’s wearing a black lingerie, and a peach-colored underwear hangs loosely on the base of her ankle.

her face is mostly covered by the volumous hair she has.

“oi.”

minguk suddenly appears right behind chan, hand putting itself on chan’s broad shoulder.

“jeongin’s on his way?” chan inquires, eyes never leaving the faceless corpse.

“yep. i told him to bring raincoats and face masks too, because we’ll obviously need it.”

“good. i forgot about that part.”

“forgot _what_ part?”

oh, _right_. chan almost forgets that the beloved pimp is still there.

“we’re going to need your confirmation that this area—actually, make it the entire right wing of this corridor, is off limits for us to do our job properly,” chan dictates as he looks straight onto the baffled eyes of the silk-shirted man.

“ _what?!_ we can’t just close down an entire wing! we’ve never done something so atrocious since _this facility is built_ ,” the man angrily retorts, face seething red like a child whose candy gets stolen. “you street rats just _can’t come and start dictating_ —“

“we’re going to cut her into pieces.”

chan thanks the gods above for minguk’s interruption.

minguk may be a coward at times, but even he has a temper that can’t tolerate bullshit from narcissist no good piece of shit.

“what?”

“we’re going to cut her. _into pieces_. you know, mutilation,” minguk adds, talking as casually as possible to the positively frozen man. “so considering a human body has quite a shit ton amount of blood, and it will smell, we strongly suggest you to close down the entire wing because obviously high-rollers catching a mutilation going on right next to their fuckroom isn’t exactly a pleasant experience, don’t you agree? _sir_?”

chan raises his eyebrow in a challenge as he sees the man fumbles with his words, blood completely drained from his face. his breaths get ragged before he finally asks timidly, “is that… really necessary?”

chan nods.

“unless you want to wait another couple of hours for a new cavalry to do the job with their own method.”

the man sighs tiredly, dramatically, and chan knows both he and minguk will cut a human body this Sunday as peaceful as expected.

///

chan slams down The Freezer so it’s locked automatically without a password to its old school keypad, storing perhaps a dozen plastic bags with sizes big enough to almost make minguk cry in panic because _there’s no way we can fucking close The Freezer down_.

chan simply hopes he doesn’t break The Freezer because it is an unimaginable asset for the works jiwook have put chan and minguk into nowadays.

“ _fucking hell_. not again,” minguk sighs tiredly besides him as he slides down the wall to sit down, breaths ragged. “i smell like a fucking butcher.”

“we technically are,” chan quips. silence stretches, as both knows there’s a _difficult_ conversation coming up regarding who’s going to stay here until midnight to guard the bags.

“we’ll settle with rock, paper, scissors,” minguk finally donates an idea, and chan shrugs in defeat. there’s no other way fairer than rock, paper, scissors.

and just as chan thinks the whole world must’ve hated him to have a nice, Sunday off, he puts out a rock while minguk puts out a paper.

“godspeed fucking sam!” minguk exclaims a _little too loudly_ as he whoops himself a hurray.

“fuck,” chan whines, but he isn’t a pussy who would back down from a deal, even as there’s nothing else he can think as he sees minguk retreating down the hall whistling other than pushing the pug-nosed man down from the balcony.

but that would only leave him more trouble than necessary to handle the body.

he sighs dejectedly as he takes out his phone to texts jiwook that the body has been moved and would be handled later into the night.

as chan is about to pocket his phone back in to light a cigarette before finding one of the empty rooms to catch a nap up, the phone vibrates intensely. someone’s calling.

han jisoo.

_han jisoo_?

chan finds himself staring at the screen a little longer than necessary, still digesting the possible scenarios as to _why would jisoo call him_? after all this time? after… _everything_?

did something happen to her? or to…?

chan’s train of thoughts are immediately ended the same time the ringing ends, and chan’s mind is flooded with regret—because no matter what, he just _can’t say no_ to jisoo, ever. that woman has gone through so many whirlwind of shit to help chan, and some _personal problems_ won’t turn chan into an ungrateful son of a bitch. he immediately presses “return call” and subconsciously bites his fingernails anxiously.

turns out he doesn’t have to wait too long as the woman in question picks up right at the second ring.

and it’s silent.

chan decides to take a deep breath before he calmly utters, “hello?”

some rustlings are heard, so is a bated breath.

“chan?”

it’s so weird. it _feels_ weird. it’s been such a long time since chan heard his name being spoken by that oh-so-tender voice, and it _feels_ … weird.

“auntie?”

a chuckle is heard from the other line.

“ah, it feels like a decade ago since i heard that from you, channie.”

_it feels even longer for me_.

something clenches in chan’s heart, a sense of melancholic sentiment that he hasn’t felt for quite a while now.

something he knows that’s only reserved for one and only _han jisoo_.

“just say you miss me, auntie,” chan opts for a joke instead, chuckling as he leans on the wall. thankfully, his joke is accepted warmly and a laugh is returned by the other line.

“i miss you, channie. there, i said it. where’s mine?” jisoo replies warmly, and chan can imagine her cheeks puffing up from smiling, so bad it leaves her eyes closed every time she even breaks out into a grin.

“i miss you too, auntie.”

and it’s _genuine_. he feels like as he utters those words, it feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest, something he doesn’t understand about. he feels… relieved as he hears the warm voice of jisoo again after such a long time.

here chan is, leaning his body to a wall of an abandoned hotel filled with junkies and other hidden criminal evidences, where just several hours ago he was cutting a body of a young girl into pieces to be put inside an ice box right next to him.

yet he finds himself smiling genuinely, warmly, like a son coming home from war straight into his mother’s arms.

indeed, he _misses_ jisoo so much.

“how are you, sweet pea?”

chan finds himself unable to resist an even bigger smile creeping up to his face listening to that. to… how _gentle_ jisoo is to him, even after everything he’s done to _her_.

“i’m fine, auntie.”

“you’re not getting into troubles anymore, are you?” jisoo starts with her scolding mother tone again, and chan can’t even find it in him to feel any bit incredulous.

“you know i can never promise you that, auntie,” chan replies with a light laugh and a heavy heart.

_i’m worse now, auntie. i literally mutilated an unknown girl whose family probably waits for her return this christmas in a country somewhere_.

“bad channie,” jisoo scolds softly, with no malice at all in her voice.

“that’s what makes me so flattering, though?”

“ _brat_ ,” jisoo spits again jokingly, sending both of them laughing. it’s silent for a while, then. chan listening to jisoo’s soft breaths with a permanent smile and tears etching the sides of his eyes, her voice bringing forth a memory of… _calmness_ to chan’s ears before the path chan has taken brought him here.

he’s about to deliver his brilliant idea of visiting jisoo, because no matter what _awaits_ at her home, he misses the woman’s soft pats and light jokes terribly, when jisoo speaks up again, halting him.

“chan.”

and her tone is different. not exactly that drastically different to give chan a worried whiplash, but different as in he’s about to ask a… triggering question to a child.

and last chan’s checked, he hasn’t hidden any new lies to the woman.

“yes, auntie?” chan braces himself to reply.

“i’m… actually calling after all this time because i want to ask something.”

uncertainty pricks the back of chan’s head, anxiety joining immediately. jisoo has that effect on him, always. he knows he’s an awful _sinner_ , he’s done so many awful things, and just one glance or one word from jisoo is enough to make him feel immense guilt for hiding all his illicit activities from her.

but he hasn’t seen nor talked to jisoo for months now. and his face hasn’t ended up anywhere in the news yet. the thought calms him down a bit, at least.

“okay. what is it?” chan asks carefully, but not careful enough to conspicuously show wariness. jisoo always has a sharp ear to detect something’s wrong in anyone’s way of speaking.

her harsh background makes sure of that.

“well, um,” jisoo interrupts herself with an awkward chuckle, typical. she’s always easily wavered upon any tiny prospect of her being a burden to someone else. “i… don’t really know how to put it out, exactly.”

“just say it, auntie,” chan fakes a chuckle, trying to loosen the poor woman up. “it’s just me.”

a voice in his head tells him _that’s probably why jisoo hesitates a lot_ but he shuts it down immediately.

“okay,” jisoo replies with a stronger determination. “have you, by chance, seen jisung lately?”

it’s almost like soaking oneself into an ice bath, the moment chan hears the name being pronounced. the moment jisoo’s name appears as an ID caller on chan’s phone screen, the name of her son has prickled itself in the back of chan’s mind but the boy _knows_ jisung has turned into a sensitive, possibly conflicting, topic between jisoo and him.

who’s fault is that? chan, of course.

“chan?”

jisoo’s hesitant, timid question wakes chan back up, and he feels genuinely sorry for reacting the way he does so _visibly_ to jisoo.

“uh, no, not really,” chan dumbly stutters, as awkward as he really tries to hide.

“ _really_?”

and that’s the tone that triggers chan’s irritation.

“yes, _really_ , auntie. i don’t _kidnap_ your son or _anything_ ,” he spits, and he immediately feels shame wash over him when he hears jisoo’s soft, timid gasp on the other line. “sorry, auntie. i—i really don’t mean it that way, you know. i—“

“it’s okay,” jisoo interrupts, this time with a sadder voice and chan wants to _cry_. “i’m sorry for asking. i know things were awful between you and jisung but i keep—“

“no, no, no,” chan interrupts again, panic lacing in his voice. “it’s… it’s not your fault. whatever’s happened between jisung and i have passed. i’m just being… stupid.”

it’s a lie. what happened between him and jisung may have chronologically passed, but the effects of it still linger thickly.

but he won’t burden jisoo with the immaturity both him and her son bear.

“okay,” jisoo settles, shortly. an uncomfortable three seconds silence spans, and chan just wants to bash himself in the head for making the person he misses most awkward.

“sorry for snapping like that, auntie.”

jisoo gently chuckles, like a mother seeing her son’s little prank.

“it’s okay. i understand.”

however, despite how the mention of jisung, along with jisoo’s implicit accusation of chan’s tendency in lying (she’s not wrong, chan was just being a coward), has triggered something bad in chan’s memory, the boy can’t resist his curiosity to peek itself out.

“auntie, if i may ask, why are you asking about jisung to me?”

“oh,” the sudden sadness that takes over jisoo’s voice in just that word alone settles wrongly in chan’s gut. he doesn’t like hearing han jisoo being sad. “i… um. well. jisung hasn’t come home. for five months now.”

chan’s eyes widen.

“what?”

“he… ah, _screw it_. guess i’m going to spill everything to you,” jisoo chuckles, and even chan can hear how forced it is. “since he came home from your place five months ago, saying you both won’t see each other ever again—“

chan’s eyes automatically close at the mention, feeling repulsed to recall the messy events all over again.

“—he’d stayed at home for a week, then he left.”

“left?” chan questions.

“yes, he just left. no notes, no clothes,” jisoo continues, and chan can hear the exhaustion clearly. “he still contacted me, though. not exactly everyday but at least once a week he’d tell me he’s okay and i shouldn’t worry even though i keep on sending long messages that he shouldn’t miss school and such. it was in the middle of the midterms, how can i not scold him to come home?”

chan nods, listening, although his head is filled with so many questions.

“but he had never responded to any of my words regarding school,” jisoo continues, solemnly. “and then, after three weeks, he just stopped contacting me.”

“ _stopped_?”

“yes, stopped. no text messages, no calls, no kakaotalk. when i tried calling his number, it’s no longer active.”

chan furrows his brows in confusion.

“at first i thought maybe he just… wanted to find himself, considering i’m not exactly the best partner to spend time with day to day,” _that’s not true_ , chan wants to retaliate and maybe insult jisung at the same time for the way he makes his own mother feels. “but… it’s just, odd. i have a bad feeling. i asked around, you know? i asked around until i reached your old flat’s neighborhood.”

chan feels a muscle on his forehead moves a little, knowing how close jisoo got to him once, after shit fell apart, but she didn’t come to see him.

“i wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me back then, so i didn’t bother to come over. sorry, channie.”

_i’ll always want to see you, auntie. especially at that time_.

“it’s okay, auntie. please, continue.”

“and, well. some guys i knew that they know you told me that they last hung out with jisung, jisung told them he’s going to _The Grid_ —“

_The Grid_?

chan furrows his brows even more, not considering any bit of the fact that jisung literally _went_ to the fucking Grid.

The Grid is a bar in the corner of Itaewon, on the extreme opposite ends with The Dime, and it’s where the gangs in seoul call “The DMZ” or demilitarized area or neutral grounds.

but as various gang members hang around the place, chan has adamantly told jisung that place isn’t safe, and he should stay away. offend one of the gang members there, and shit will happen as soon as you walk out from The Grid.

_why the fuck did he want to go there?_

only people who wants to pick fights, hire prostitutes, or buy drugs from other gangs’ specialties go to the _motherfucking Grid_.

even jisoo knows The Grid is as off limits as they come.

“—and after that, the guys said they hadn’t seen or heard anything from jisung anymore.”

“did they say anything about what was jisung doing, going to The Grid?” chan asks.

“no,” jisoo answers so weakly chan’s heart hurts. “but they said jisung had been out of it the entire day before he had decided to announce he was going to that place.”

_what the fuck, han jisung_.

“i tried contacting minho, but i think he’s changed his number.”

_another name_ chan doesn’t really look forward to hear, but he’ll mellow in bitter memories later, after he finds a way to eradicate the way jisoo’s voice tremble, how even chan can hear the sleep depravity the poor woman is suffering now.

“i don’t know, channie,” this time, jisoo’s voice cracks and chan clenches his fist as he hears jisoo tries to hold back her sniffles. “i just… i don’t know anymore.”

chan sighs heavily.

“do you… do you think he’s _dead?_ ” jisoo asks again, voice shaking.

the word alone sends a cold, tingly shiver up chan’s spine.

“is _my baby dead_ , channie?”

and chan’s heart _breaks_.

jisoo tries harder to conceal her tears, now, although she’s doing a poor job at it. meanwhile, chan feels his heart shreds to pieces each second he hears jisoo’s desperate attempt not to cry to the phone, but also another thing clenches his heart now, filling his ears with uncomfortable buzz.

_is jisung dead?_

chan finally sees again images of jisung, visual representations he try to bury deep since the last time they saw each other. but now, the only thing he can imagine is jisung’s skeleton, rotting beneath the ground somewhere, or if the gangsters who murdered jisung had the same mentality as chan, jisung’s body would had been cut to pieces before being disposed for good by being drowned in an acid barrel.

_fuck_.

“he’s not dead, auntie,” chan finally speaks, and the sniffles quiten down on the other side as the other party tries to focus on hearing what chan’s got to say. “trust me, jisung’s not dead.”

chan doesn’t even know who is he trying to convince at the moment. jisoo seems to detect it as well, as her bittersweet laugh permeates through the phone.

“i hope so, channie,” she replies, so soft chan barely hears anything, and he knows he fails to convince anyone.

“i—“

suddenly, jisoo clears her throat.

“ah, sorry for taking up your time, channie. i’m sure you were—“

_no no._

“no, auntie, stop. don’t be like that,” chan interrupts, desperation laced.

“channie, you’re always so kind. such a good boy—“

_he’s not. he’s the worst kind a man can ever be._ if only jisoo knows what had happened between her son and chan, she wouldn’t even bother to still save up chan’s number.

“—so eager to help, but this isn’t supposed to be your—“

“i’ll find him.”

“… huh?”

chan widens his eyes, surprised at his own words. but he can’t back down now.

jisung… he had probably left because of what chan _had done_ to him, and in a way, that means chan is also responsible at making jisoo feels like total shit right now.

“i’ll find him, auntie. i’ll find jisung for you.”

“what?! no! chan, don’t do that, please. it could be dangerous and i—“

“— _should just sit tight in my house and wait for updates from chan_. i’ll find him, auntie.”

“chan, please—“

“talk to you later.”

chan hangs up immediately because he _knows_ jisoo will keep on nagging him to change his mind, to not bother, and it’s proven by her attempts at calling him four times in a row after that.

but he pays no heed to that any longer as he looks at the wall in front of him, The Freezer besides him, and massages his nose bridge.

_what has he gotten himself into?_

_where the fuck is jisung?_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. tags will be added/edited in the future. :)


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